


New Romantics

by bedlinens



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bedlinens/pseuds/bedlinens
Summary: They dance.Spoiler for season 2's finale.
Relationships: The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro & The Frenchman, The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro/The Frenchman, The Female | Kimiko Moyashiro/The Frenchman
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	New Romantics

They dance.

They dance all night long, and sometimes, the day too.

It is unlike anything she ever dreamt of or saw on TV. (Most of her expectations are TV-fueled, who can blame her? She was a kid soldier after all.)

In New York, he takes her to an underground club, where people get trashed and dance like mad people, high on drug and alcohol, and life.

He takes some X, and she does not want any, because it would dull her senses.

She wants to feel it all.

They gyrate around one another, she puts her arms above her head, and shakes her body to the music, feeling free. Her pants are riding low, and some of her scars can be seen, but it does not bother her. He has seen all of her, whether in the past or nowadays.

They do live together after all, sleep in the same bed.

They are this close to showering together.

Hell, it even happened once, when they were in a hurry and had to catch a plane. They both kept their underwear on, and he later joked about it while they got cozy on the plane.

“Two fools under the spray, we could have been naked and the other would have seen nothing with all the soap.”

He stresses his R, like he always does, and it brings her smile to her face. She is somewhere good. She is with someone good. The past is gone, and now, well, they dance.

The dance electro music is so loud, and she likes it. Frenchie may not be the tallest man around, but he stands out like if he was to her. Some random boys try and get her to dance with them, but she’s all woman, and she will not settle for anything less than a man.

(Speaking of Boys, she makes a note to try to get in touch with Petit Hughie later on, and M. M.)

She shakes her body, drink in the melody, let it flow through her, and when she pops her hip one way or another, well, it is pure instinct. Turns out dancing is very much like fighting. You can learn it, but it can be primal and feral, in which case it’s nothing short of a masterpiece.

Frenchie has a fluorescent tube as a necklace on, alongside some stupid heart-shaped glowing sunglasses, while she sports some bands around her upper arms, alongside one she wears as a crown.

She is his queen, and he has got eyes only for her. Talk about a perfect metaphor.

They’re dancing, dancing, closer and closer, not touching, yet it’s more intimate than if they were.

Then, he twirls her around him, and his hand settles on her hip. Out of instinct, she locks her arms around his neck as she throws herself back, letting the wave of music roll over her being.

She doesn’t need her hands to talk to him, her eyes speak volume, or he is just good at reading her.

(He sure is the best at reading her, she cannot fault him there. He is the Kimiko whisperer, as Cherie once joked after joining them)

The tunes are so loud, but when he speaks, she can hear him just fine, so used to his voice. Maybe it is her brain playing how she know he sounds. Who cares?

She is free, they dance.

* * *

Then, they fly to Paris, and he takes her to this club, le caveau de la Huchette, in the quartier latin, and she suddenly understand why he had helped her chose a longer dress.

It is a jazz club, and she keeps waving her hands around, telling him all that is running through her head. He keeps chuckling, sober as a monk, except for the glass of red wine he is sipping on. He has on a much smarter outfit than he usually does, matching her dolled-up appearance. The top buttons of his shirt are open, and she gets a glimpse of his chest. 

They leave their place at some point, after he payed one of the waiter boys to make sure nothing gets stolen, and he has a smoke in the Parisian fresh air.

She tightens her arms around her frame, feeling a chill go down her spine.

He offers her his jacket, and she feels like he has swept her up in his arms, as his scent is all her mind registers.

She used to wonder if he would let her know that sex was on the plate as long as she was willing. She knew he would never make it sound like he expected, but she had sort of pictured he would let her know it could happen, if she wanted to.

They have not shared that particular embrace, but the more time she is spending with him, the more she understands that intimacy does not just happen between sheets.

(Though she is not opposed to it).

He jokingly offers her a drag on his cig, and she rolls her eyes. He laughs and something sparks in her lower belly.

She is getting used to feeling this way, and she never wants it to stop. Maybe that is why they have not crossed that threshold.

They go back inside, and much to her regret, she has to give up his jacket.

The pianist is playing some slow songs, with a French woman singing “La vie en rose“ and other Edith Piaf’s songs.

(Frenchie may be into edgy French rap, but he also knows his classics).

He seems a little uncertain, and she just gives him a sweet understanding smile as she signs something.

_Invite me to dance_

He chuckles and complies happily. He puts his hands on her shoulders, but she lowers one on her hip. It allows him to make her spin then end up closer to him. She breathes in his smell, the faint odor of tobacco on his clothes, and his eyes burn into her soul. She puts her head near his, and she can feel his smile against her cheek.

She feels warm, and safe, nudges her nose against his skin. She feels his breath catch in his throat.

When they must return to their table, she asks to taste the wine. It burns her throat, the taste tart but strong-bodied. It leaves a veil on her palate; she does not know how to explain it further. He taught her the words to talk about wine, but having never really experienced it herself, she hesitates when it comes to naming things.

She can tell that if they had not grabbed a strong dinner, it would have made her head feel lighter.

She could pretend she is tipsy and do things, but it is not who they are. She gives him back the glass with a smile, signing how it felt. He moves his seat closer to hers, and soon, she feels his warmth against her side. She enjoys it, listen to the singer, feels Frenchie hum along to a few tunes.

She really could like Paris, she thinks.

* * *

Later, they go back to the States, and end up at the Pride Parade in New Orleans.

It is no dancing she has ever experienced, but man, does she love it. They dance in the streets. They cheer on the people on floats. It is free. It is belonging to a community, celebrating life. Celebrating love.

The air is damp, and heavy, but she has never felt more alive and energized.

She cheers silently, Frenchie making noise loud enough for the both of them.

She laughs when two drag queens they have befriended convince him to get some lipstick and a wig. Before she knows what is happening, she is on the float along with him, with a boa around her neck, so much jewelry you would think they had just pulled off a heist, wearing a bowler hat, and a fake mustache.

She dances, and more. Soon, her boa ends up around Frenchie’s neck, and she is pulling him closer to her.

When their lips touch, she can distantly hear some cheers, but it is nothing compared to what is going on inside of her head.

It is a whole new world.

(Sure, he had kissed her before, but it does not count, the intensity of this kiss makes it so clear)

She opens her mouth and his tongue tentatively reaches for her. She puts her arms around his neck, one hand going in the wig, and she smiles against his lips. She can feel the sloppy lipstick he has on, and she just does not mind. It is him. It is her. It is them. He wants to say something, probably to tell her that they should not rush into things. The thing is, they have not rushed. They are just where they should be.

She takes this opportunity to deepen the kiss, and her whole body is on fire.

* * *

Later, much later, in their hotel room, she slowly dances in his arms, as they both look outside the window. They’re separated by the sheet she has put on before joining him. She drops it on the floor and turns around in his arm.

Making love is very much like dancing with him.

So much foreplay… She would not trade it for the world.

He claims her as his, and she does the same.

They keep dancing, always dancing.

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please drop a word! I'd love to hear from you! I was reading something super boring when this idea attacked me.


End file.
